In Renascentia Azkaban
by chicadoodle
Summary: When Harry is thrown in Azkaban following the events of the Tri-Wizard tournament, he discovers just how far the Wizarding World will go to protect the status quo - and that there is more to Azkaban Prison than meets the eye. The True History of the Wizarding World waits for him in the lowest levels of Azkaban - a truth that only the Dementor's may reveal.
1. A World of Secrets

The Wizarding World was a place of secrets - from the very beginning it had been so. Held apart from the rest of the world, their existence was kept a secret from those who would harm them; those who, though they held no magic of their own, were so many in number as to overwhelm the few wizards and witches who hid from them.

There was another knowledge beneath that, however; the knowledge that they could, with time and a concentration of their abilities, wipe this danger from the face of the planet. They held the power, if they were but willing to use it; the power to kill, to utterly destroy that which frightened them so. It was this knowledge that many feared more than death itself - that they held within themselves this ability to destroy.

So they kept it a secret, even from themselves. Those who understood just how far their magic could go toward the destruction of all which was beautiful guarded this knowledge, lest those whose moral scruples were few in number become aware.

Laws were passed, banning the use of certain spells, and then later entire groups of spells. Entire branches of knowledge were banned throughout the whole of the wizarding world - a practice which was to continue as territories were laid out in the Muggle world and countries were formed, separating wizards from one another through cultural, political, and geographical lines.

Secrets ruled the WIzarding World. Secrets kept the populace safe in their ignorance, willing to accept, as a whole, the limitations placed upon them by their government, both old and new.

So years passed in ignorance and silence, with little changing in the Wizarding World from the time of Merlin, that man that so many looked up to. A man who had been integral in creating many of the limitations which the Wizarding World now accepted. Change was slow in coming, and was fought by the general populace with a ferocity they showed for little else.

That status quo was almost sacred by the time Harry Potter was born. Lord Voldemort was hated and feared for challenging this status quo - perhaps even more so than for the deaths which had come about at his hands and the hands of his followers. To challenge a world of secrets, to bring knowledge to the forefront with little to no fear of the consequences of chasing such knowledge and power ...

That which the Wizarding World did not understand, they feared. In this respect, they were no different from the muggles which they hid themselves from. And the power which Tom Riddle - Lord Voldemort - held at his fingertips was no different. They did not understand it, but they did understand that it was forbidden to chase such secrets, such knowledge.

Secrets were funny things; you could keep them without ever wondering why. They could be kept from you, without you ever realizing there was more to the world than what you had been told. When an entire society had been taught to ignore a part of their own existence - when they had been systematically taught to keep those same secrets from their own children ... well, those were the sorts of secrets that could prove truly deadly.


	2. Abandoned and Reviled

Azkaban Prison pre-dated the oldest records of The Wizarding World. It had been ancient during the days of the Founders, and ancient still during the days of Merlin. There were few structures which had remained preserved quite like Azkaban, that mighty fortress which had become a prison for the Wizarding World.

Funny thing about secrets - they could make even the brightest of minds glaze over the simplest of questions, the most rudimentary of details. Even Hermione Granger, considered by many to the brightest mind of her generation, was not immune to this. Though it was not in her nature to simply accept the status quo when it worked against her - or against others, even - she had never been given a reason to question that which she read in her schoolbooks and extracurricular reading.

Not until now.

With the ending of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, several things happened to jade Hermione against the Wizarding Government, but they all culminated in the imprisonment of her best friend, Harry Potter, within the Wizarding prison of Azkaban.

That it had been done with absolutely no legal proceedings at all had confused the bushy-haired Gryffindor . . . until she had taken note of the reactions of those around her.

Complete acceptance. Approval, even, of the actions of the government. And beneath that, an unwillingness to even consider the idea that the government might have been wrong, that they could have made a mistake ... never mind that Hermione herself was quite convinced that this was no mistake. This was a clear and evident example of a government who would do anything to shut up a dissident such as Harry Potter had quickly become.

What hurt the most, however, was the lack of action against those who would have believed Harry. Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, even the Weasleys - none of them raised a finger to help her friend, and it had floored Hermione in a way that none of the adventures and revelations she had experienced since entering the Wizarding World had managed to do.

And it had all boiled down to one man's inaction - Albus Dumbledore. They had all looked to him for guidance, and he had failed to lift so much as a finger in defense of a young man many had considered his favorite pupil. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," he had somberly claimed, and Hermione had been unable to do anything to sway his mind.

"Even Mr. Potter must face the consequences of his actions, and his decisions." Professor Moody had been the one to come up with that particular anecdote, and it had left Hermione Granger dumbfounded, that they could blame Harry at the same moment that they claimed they did not believe him capable of the cold-blooded murder of another student.

Had the entire world gone mad? Hermione was inclined to believe so. Her only allies in this seemed to be Sirius Black and Remus Lupin - but what could a wanted criminal and a known werewolf hope to accomplish?

So they plotted, and they schemed, but still it took nearly six months before a visitor's pass could be acquired for Hermione, with Remus Lupin barely managing to convince the authorities to allow him to accompany her, in lieu of a parental figure. She was, after all, muggle-born - and what sane government official would allow a muggle entrance into Azkaban? They would surely go mad at the very sight of the prison, or so the government seemed to think. That, and only that, had allowed Remus Lupin the opening he needed in order to accompany his former student within it's walls.

Hermione had thought herself ready to face Azkaban Prison, and the horrors which awaited her within it's walls. She had pushed Sirius for answers, for insight into what she would find there. It had hurt her to push him so, to see the pain in his eyes as he spoke of his time there, but it was for a worthy cause - and in the end, all she had to do was mention Harry's name, and Sirius was right there with her, opening up as he never would have otherwise.

He would do anything for the son of James and Lily Potter. He would have allowed himself to be imprisoned within Azkaban again, if it would have saved his nephew from the horrors he knew the young man was experiencing at this very moment.

But nothing could have prepared Hermione Granger for the horror that truly awaited her. The dingy, dirty hallways, the screams of those imprisoned who had long ago gone mad . . . the guard who smiled at the sound of another blood-curdling scream as he led her down the hall toward the section of the prison that was supposed to house her best friend.

All of that, of course, paled in comparison to the fear that leapt through her chest as she took in the sight of the empty cell, Remus' hand on her shoulder the only thing keeping her steady, keeping her grounded.

There was a flurry of movement, several uttered curses and an air of anger as the guard sprang into action, a quick spell drawing several other guards to him as he shouted something about an escape.

Escape. Harry had escaped. Even through her fear, Hermione felt a thrill of excitement, of exultation at the thought that Harry had persevered.

Something of her elation must have shown on Hermione's face, for their guide turned his full attention on her, reaching for his wand as he advanced toward Hermione.

The hand on Hermione's shoulder tightened for a moment, before Remus spoke softly - so softly Hermione almost didn't catch it. "Run."


	3. Makers and Descendants

Azkaban Prison had withstood the test of time, outliving both its creators and even those who remembered it's proud history. It had stood, once, as the gateway between two worlds; a place of history and lore keeping, a silent testimony to all which had come before it.

The veil between the worlds was thinnest here, allowing one to step seamlessly from one world and into another. Those responsible for its creation had long since passed from this life, their bones long since turned to dust. But their descendents had lived on, flourishing in a world that had not been the home of their forefathers, but had come to welcome them.

Few remained who could trace their lineage back to those few brave souls who had chosen to leave their homes, their world, behind. Of those few, none now remembered their lineage, nor that another world existed within reach.

Of those whose blood lines had survived the passage of years, many had been without the spark of magic within them, and their lines had become lost through the annals of time, war, and the 'muggle' world. Still more had intermarried until their own history was lost to them.

Among the latter, Hermione Granger was the first in over ten generations to exhibit such a strong gift for magic. She was the first, in close to 800 years, to visit those places filled with magic and history that her ancestors had once touched - though she was unaware of her lineage, of course. Too many marriages, outside blood and lost history existed between herself and those who had come before her.

But deep down, back through the ages and hidden within a generations-wide gap, existed the blood of one who had walked the roads between worlds; one who had bridged the gap from one world to another, and chosen to remain in a world as uncivilized as any untamed wilderness, and had left their mark upon it.

That mark was the fortress now known as Azkaban Prison. It had been over two thousand years since one of her blood had touched these ancient stones, and the magic left behind by its ancient creators reacted suddenly and strongly. It was sentient in a way, as sentient as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had ever been. That sentience realized two things as Hermione's hands came into contact with the ancient stone walls that had lost so much of its honor - but none of it's history or magic.

FIrst, that one of the Old Blood had once again come within its ancient halls.

Second, that individual was in danger, frightened and without any to protect them.

The magic reacted in the only way it knew how; by drawing Hermione within, heedless of her gasp of alarm or her lack of knowledge as to not only her own lineage, but also what was happening to her - or why.


	4. A Library Can Be A Dangerous Place

The Library of the Clayr was unlike any other. A vast archive of magical materials, both written and physical, it extends far below the glacier that the Clayr call home. The library is shaped in a large downward shrinking spiral, reaching from the top of the mountains and reaching down into the bowels of the earth.

The Clayr who called that same glacier home had long been blessed with the gift of foresight; the ability to peer into the future. But the Clayr were more than just their ability to catch glimpses of possible futures - for no future was truly set in stone, no destiny irrevocable or unchangeable. The Clayr were traders, collectors of lost lore and guardians of some of the most dangerous secrets the Old Kingdom had to offer.

It was in the Library of the Clayr that these secrets were guarded, this lore preserved. To call it a library, then, was often misleading; much of what was collected had nothing to do with books, and went even beyond the collection of artefacts. Living, breathing creatures lay trapped in the lower depths of these halls.

It was said that the great spiral of the Library ended abruptly at the face of a pale green rock. This was an accepted fact, though it had been years since any had dared to wander so far down into the depths. The lower one wandered, the more dangerous and ancient the collection of artefacts and creatures one might find - though all were held behind powerful wards and enchantments to keep them hidden away. But even the most powerful of wards withered away with time.

How long had it been since any had made their way into the lowest depths of the Library? Longer than any could recollect, certainly. None in the history of the Clayr had visited those depths in centuries, perhaps even longer. Was it so surprising, then, that the Clayr might have lost count of the many rooms and chambers which existed?

Due to the precognitive gift that the Clayr shared in their bloodline, many of the chambers of the Library had been created, not to hold anything captive, but to await the coming of another; should a Clayr foresee a chamber existing where none currently did, such a chamber would often be created to facilitate in this vision.

All in all, the Library of the Clayr was a dangerous place; a place of secrets, even from the Clayr themselves. Entire chambers had been forgotten, hidden away from human eyes for centuries - and longer. Wards had fallen, never to be replaced; ancient protections breaking under the unstoppable force of time.

But at the base of the Library, where no feet had traveled in thousands of years - here lay the greatest secret of the Library of the Clayr.

Here lay Azkaban.


	5. Logic Has No Place Here

Magic was a funny thing. It could twist the laws of nature, of physics, to suit its whims. Though the Wizards and Witches of Earth had come to use their magic for amusement and to make their lives easier and more comfortable, when structure was applied to magic it could create wonders that the Wizarding World had never even dreamed of. In the same breath, when magic was allowed to run wild and free with no interference ... Well, the word extraordinary did not even begin to cover it.

The connection of Azkaban Prison and the Library of the Clayr was one such instance, where the logical rules of nature had taken leave of their senses. Logic had no place here; magic had twisted that which should have been, and created something else.

One the one hand, there was Azkaban. Once a home, then a fortress, and finally a prison; an island now filled with so much sorrow and sadness that the darkness seemed never to lift from it's shores. Beyond the shores of Azkaban an entire world stretched out, both magical and mundane.

Yet at the lowest reaches of Azkaban lay a passage leading into a sunlit world. One had to but step beyond the last doorway in order to find themselves within the Library of the Clayr, the whole of The Old Kingdom stretching out beyond it's borders. Encased within an ancient mountain, the Library held the only entry point into the realms of Earth, though the passage of time had eradicated all memory of this passage from the minds of those who had safeguarded it.

Connected through a single passage, hidden beneath the Rock and stone of the Clayr Sanctuary, Azkaban had remained forgotten and silent, it's only occupants the sendings created all those centuries ago. The Free Magic which permeated Earth to it's very core had twisted these once docile creatures, until all that remained were the Dementors - creatures twisted by the pain and fear which surrounded them.

When Azkaban first became a prison for the damned and the forgotten, these creatures had not been a part of it. No Witch or Wizard had known of their presence, for they remained in the lowest levels of the fortress, away from the prying eyes of the Free Magic users above - a magic as different from their own as to be nearly indistinguishable.

But the Free Magic of the Wizards and Witches of Earth had seeped into this place, corrupting and changing these creatures into what would, one day, become the Dementors of Azkaban; creatures as different from those original Sendings as night was from day - as Chaos was from Order.

Where the Free magic of Earth met the Charter Magic of those long-ago visitors from another world, the strange and the impossible walked hand in hand and became the commonplace. Time moved differently here, in the lower halls of Azkaban Prison; so slow, in fact, that one watching from a distance might imagine that it did not pass at all.

One might live out their entire life within these halls, buried deep beneath Azkaban Prison, while a mere handful of hours passed above. Days, weeks, months, even years passing by in the time it took to cross from one room to another - an entire life wasted, seeking a way to cross a barrier of magic that had become warped and disjoined, without that chaos destroying the traveler.

Harry Potter knew this very well - he had already spent more than half a decade in the pursuit of such a goal.


	6. A Different Magic

There are two types of magic within the world; Free Magic, and Charter Magic. Though commonly practiced within other realms, Charter Magic was non existent within the Wizarding World as it existed upon Earth. The only remnants of it's former use lay in the ancient runes which even now were taught at magical schools throughout the world, their only use laying in advanced arithmetic, and some of the more advanced and ancient rituals. These rituals were, of course, highly illegal and dangerous; even their study was ground for imprisonment within Azkaban, and their use could easily lead to a Dementor's Kiss.

Charter Magic had not always been absent from Earth; in those early days after Azkaban had been created, it's use was common enough among those who had made the journey to this untamed land. Charter Magic was, after all, a magic of control; unlike Free Magic, one could not simply call upon it accidentally. It took many years of careful study to cast even the simplest of runic constructs, and the possession of a Charter Mark was required before such study could even begin. The Free Magic of Earth was reviled as a thing of evil among such Charter Mages, and it's practice had both dismayed and shocked those who had discovered it upon entering into this fertile land.

How might this world have changed, had those Charter Mages been successful in their attempt to convert the Free Magic Users to their way of thinking? Had they been just a bit more aggressive in their efforts, the whole of the Wizarding World would have changed drastically - such as it was at the time. There was no true unifying government at the time, no 'wizarding world' to speak of. Only a collection of natives who had discovered the use of magic, and used it to enhance their lives and that of their kin.

But as the years passed and those with the potential for Free Magic began to come together, those who still knew of Charter Magic grew smaller and smaller in number. They were a dying breed, their knowledge dwindling with their numbers. What little of Charter Magic they had passed on to the natives of this world was not enough to turn them from the chaos of Free Magic, though its remnants remained still in the history of the Wizarding World.

Charter Magic, you see, was different from the Free Magic of the Wizarding World. Free Magic was unconstrained, wild, and without mercy. Thousands of years ago it had reigned as the only magic - a power beyond reckoning. The creation of The Charter had seen a form of control finally being placed upon magic itself - a way in which creatures both mortal and immortal might exert control over this primal energy.

The history of Charter Magic was long and complicated - it's very existence had consumed the lives - and the souls - of those who had sought to bring order to the primal forces of creation. The creation of the Charter, then, had been an undertaking unlike any dreamed of by the magic users of Earth - those Free Magic users who sought to use Free Magic for their own purposes.

The Charter was created long before any sought to bridge the gap between the worlds - long before any had existed who could. Before light and civilization had existed, when the Free Magic of that far away world had run wild, unconstrained and with an energy that could not be contained, shaped, or controlled by even the most skilled of magical practitioners.

The creation of the Charter had brought order where there had been naught but chaos. What little Free Magic remained was dulled, it's edges no longer so sharp, it's power dimmed greatly from the time Before. Useable, yes, but still dangerous; eating away at the souls and bodies of those who wielded it, or even came into too close contact with it's power.

It was with the creation of the Charter that magic had begun to be shaped upon Earth, though none knew of the correlation. The Magic of Earth was Free Magic, yes, but used in such a way, and in such a magnitude, that none of the Charter-infused Old Kingdom could ever have imagined. It permeated the very air of Earth, seeping into the pores of every living thing.

None could escape it.


	7. Awakenings

Hermione came to consciousness slowly. This was not unusual for her; she had never been a morning person, though she had always fought to hide this fact from her friends. She woke before most of her dorm mates, her nose buried in a book by the time they fought their way to wakefulness and began to get ready for the day.

There were, she had discovered, never enough hours in the day. And if she was to help her friends with their studies on top of her own academic hurdles, she needed to be as alert as possible by the time they made an appearance.

So no, the fact that she was not immediately alert on awakening did not alarm the young Gryffindor. What did alarm her, however, were her surroundings upon finally opening her eyes.

Hermione had expected to find herself in her dorm room at Gryffindor Tower, before remembering that she had chosen to leave Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in an attempt to fight for the freedom of her best friend.

The decision to leave Hogwarts had been an easy one. She hadn't expected it to be - all her life Hermione had been taught, and had fervently believed, that her education was tantamount to her success in the world, whether that world was magical or otherwise. When it came time to make a decision, however, Hermione had found it easy to choose her best friend over her own education.

Her parents had been surprisingly supportive in this decision, though she knew they did not fully agree with how far she had gone for Harry. But they trusted her, and her plan had been well thought out; tutors came three times a week to her parents muggle home, and the other four days Hermione spent with Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, working to find some loophole, some law, some person who would fight with them to ensure Harry's eventual release . . . or at the very least a trial.

But the sight that greeted Hermione was neither of the Gryffindor Tower, nor of her bedroom in her parent's house. Instead, she found herself facing stone walls covered from head to toe with tapestries depicting various battles against hideous creatures that would have given Hermione nightmares, if her dreams weren't already filled with the horrors she had read about in regards to Azkaban Prison. She had enough fodder now to fuel her dreams and transform them into nightmares for the rest of her life.

Slowly pushing herself upon one elbow, Hermione's brow furrowed as she stared around the room for a moment, before she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The bed itself was made of a dark brown wood that the Gryffindor could not name - but then, her studies had never led her in the direction of carpentry, so that didn't surprise the young woman.

It would have surprised her to learn, however, that the wood could not be found in England, nor the rest of Europe, or even the world. The trees from which it had been made had been felled in another world - the sort of world she might have imagined in her dreams, had she an overactive imagination. And though Hermione's imagination had helped her through many trials and tribulations in her childhood - most of which had been visited upon her by the mean-spirited children of her former muggle primary school - it had never quite dreamt up such fanciful notions as travel between worlds - particularly not with a doorway between such worlds existing as a famed and feared Wizarding Prison.

As her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, Hermione frowned down at her feet. She had been wearing shoes before, she was certain of it. Now that the bushy-haired teenager was beginning to gain some coherency and wakefulness, she remembered the events which had brought her here - and with it, her fear and confusion as she had lost consciousness earlier.

It was with a great deal of trepidation and caution that Hermione touched the long gown in which she was now dressed. Though made of an incredibly light material, it reached down to the floor when she stood up and covered her hands completely. It had obviously been made for one much taller than she, and Hermione was forced to reach down and lift up the skirt as she made her way to the open archway which served as a door to the room.

She tried desperately not to consider the fact that somebody else had dressed her, and had thus seen her naked. She could only hope that some sort of spellwork had been involved, because the only other alternative was too mortifying to even contemplate.

Hovering near the 'door', Hermione surveyed the room beyond with one hand pressed against the wall next to her. Though pristine in its cleanliness, the room beyond seemed somehow wrong to her, though the young woman couldn't quite place her finger on why. It was only after several moments of quiet observation that Hermione came to understand just what was so unnerving about the room beyond.

It was too perfect. Too pristine, too clean, too devoid of life. She recognized none of the symbols she saw adorning the scattered scrolls and books that adorned a long wooden table in the very center of the room, and though they had been left as though their peruser would return at any moment, their arrangement was a little too perfect. There was no slant to the books that always came about when Hermione herself was reading, no ink or quills to accompany the half-written pages, no mug of tea of plate of biscuits.

Making a move to step out into the eerily quiet room. Hermione frowned as her hands encountered a barrier. Though invisible, no matter how hard she pushed she found that it wouldn't budge, and Hermione found her earlier fear returning tenfold.

Deep beneath the complex now referred to simply as 'Azkaban Prison', Hermione Granger was finding that she could not leave the small room in which she found herself confined. She was, however, also finding that a large tray filled to the brim with various fruits she had never laid eyes upon before had appeared before her, as well as a sharp, tangy drink she was fairly certain was alcoholic.

No matter how she wailed upon the invisible barrier which held her locked inside, however, and no matter how she called out into the room beyond, no help appeared to be forthcoming.

She was not alone, however, and as the minutes ticked by and became hours, Hermione began to notice small signs of habitation in the room beyond that she had not noticed before.

There was an upturned cup pressed against the table, and she could just make out a damp ring around the edges; proof that it had been used recently,

There was no dust in the room, though Hermione supposed that could have been due to some magical spell or another. She had never found housekeeping spells to be of particular interest, though the former Gryffindor had to imagine that such a spell existed. She had certainly witnessed Mrs. Weasley slinging about spells to clean her house on more than one occasion.

The signs were small, but they were there - enough to know that somebody had been here recently, even if the area wasn't one they often visited.

A part of Hermione itched to know what was in those books; there was a reason why Hermione Granger had often been teased that she belonged in Ravenclaw, and her love of books was a large part of that. It wasn't simply that she was studious at school - she honestly loved to read, to learn, to discover the hidden worlds that waited, ready to be discovered within the bound pages of a book.

But Hermione could also be practical. There was a time for learning, and a time for action. There was a reason, after all, that there existed both lessons in theory and practical applications within a controlled setting in most of the muggle sciences, and even the more advanced potions classes she had begun to take part in during her scheduled class days. Knowledge was useless without a practical applications to apply it to.

So for once in her life, Hermione ignored the books scattered about the room beyond her. Instead, she claimed a seat at the table in her own room - her own prison, as far as she was concerned, and began a silent vigil. If anybody - or anything - came through here, she would know it.

It was over an hour later, as Hermione was picking idly at the plate of fruit before her and steadfastly ignoring the - likely alcoholic - drink before her that the sound of movement first caught her attention. Sitting up straighter from the slumped position she had fallen into, the bushy-haired Gryffindor

The figure that stepped into view of her room was slim, with a full head of dark hair and pale skin. Unlike the majority of Wizards, he did not wear a robe - instead, black pants had been tucked into knee-high leather boots, with a tunic that reached beyond his waist adding a splash of color the ensemble - a design Hermione had never encountered before decorated the back of his dark grey tunic, the white of the symbol standing out sharply and drawing her curious eyes to it's design. It was remarkably similar in design to many of the runes Hermione had encountered in her self study of Ancient Runes, though this specific symbol had never been encountered by the bushy haired witch before.

As the man leafed through the pages of one of the books lying on the sturdy wooden table in the room beyond, Hermione took a moment to study what she could see of his features.

His dark hair was unruly, falling in slightly curly waves down to his shoulder. His clothing, though atrociously old fashioned, was also in good condition - he was obviously comfortable in it, which only solidified in Hermione's mind the idea that this was no stage prop - these were the ordinary clothes which he wore on a daily basis, of that she was certain.

Slipping quietly to her feet, Hermione approached the invisible barrier she knew would bar her from the room beyond. That the man took no notice of her movement helped Hermione to breathe a little easier; though still wary, she could only surmise that a Dark Wizard would have been more cautious around a known supporter of the Light . . . even if she couldn't find it in herself to truly support Albus Dumbledore any longer. He had let her down in the worse possible way when he had left Harry to fend for himself against the Ministry.

The symbol, Hermione decided, was what was causing her the most worry. It was obviously a signifier of something ,but as to what . . . Hermione couldn't say. It didn't match up with any of the runes she had studied, though the simplicity of the design led her to believe that it was a root symbol - the more complicated a rune, the more complicated the design. For such a simplistic design, the bushy-haired former Gryffindor assumed that it represented a single thought - root runes were combined in a multitude of different ways to form more complicated runes, though by themselves they could also prove powerful.

It was also clear that this symbol was considered to be important in some way, for it to adorn the back of the man's clothing - a signifier of something more than a runic equation, certainly.

As the man shifted his stance, Hermione held her breath. He was only shifting his weight, however, and never even glanced in her direction, so the witch was left to study him at her leisure.

'He doesn't realize I'm here.' Hermione realized with a start, her brown eyes going wide for a moment before they narrowed in thought. 'But how could he not?'

The only logical explanation, of course, was that he had not been the one to bring her here - wherever here was - and deposit her in this opulent prison cell. And that thought alone was enough to send a thrill of fear through the teenager. One adult wizard she felt reasonably certain she could handle ... but more than that?

Hermione slowly backed up until she felt the backs of her legs hit the bed, slowly sitting down on the rumpled surface. It was only when she heard the springs squeak ever so slightly that she realized that she had made a mistake.

The man turned so quickly that he nearly fell out of his chair - a quick grab at the table was the only thing that saved him. As he straightened to his full height, Hermione rose from the bed, a slight blush staining her cheeks as she remembered just how she was dressed - in the girliest, frilliest dress she had ever worn, yet one that was reminiscent of the sleeping gowns she had witnessed in more than one historical book read as a child.

Hands balling into fists at her side, Hermione met the man's startlingly green eyes with her own surprised brown ones. Yet another reminder of Harry - why did this man have to have so many similarities to her best friend?

Similarities. Her heart skipped a beat, and it was madness - that was the only word for it. It was pure madness which brought Hermione to glance up at the man's forehead, to seek out the shaded lines of a lightning bolt scar that shouldn't have rested there. He was too old by far; easily into his twenties, if not beyond. And yet her eyes could easily make out the lines of the scar upon his otherwise smooth forehead - it was inflamed and angry, worse than she had ever seen it, and that worried Hermione more than she cared to admit.

Almost more than the fact that Harry was a good five to ten years older than he should have been.


	8. Abandoned, Imprisoned and Reviled

More than five years ago, Harry Potter had been sentenced to a life sentence in Azkaban Prison for the death of Cedric Diggory. He knew of these charges only because of a visit from the Head of the Department of Law Enforcement herself, one Amelia Bones. Though it hadn't taken long for Harry to connect Susan Bones to this older woman, he had quickly learned that mentioning the young woman was not a good idea - Madame Bones had seemed to take personal affront to the very mention of her niece, and had turned from cold to downright scary.

He would receive no trial, just like Sirius. The evidence was clear, and his lies would do him no good - all this was said with a matter of factness that left Harry frozen in shock. Even when he had attempted to open his mouth to refute such claims, he had found himself under a silencing spell before he could utter a single word.

His sentence might not have been so harsh, he had been informed, if not for his claims that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was truly responsible for the boy's death. The impersonation of a Dark Lord - particularly one who had caused so much death and destruction - was a serious crime indeed, and one that 'could not be overlooked'.

After the older woman had left, and the spells holding him in place and silent had finally worn off, Harry had still found himself unable to move. The cot in his tiny cell had been hard and lumpy, but no worse than the one he had suffered through every summer at the Dursley's, and he had ignored the protests of his body as easily then as he ever had during those helling weeks with his aunt, uncle and cousin.

How long before the numbness had worn off? He couldn't be certain, just like he couldn't be certain how long he had been unconscious before his 'meeting' with Madame Bones. had they planned it that way? To keep him confused, disoriented, unable to center himself or find some kind of common ground?

Madame Bones truly believed what she had been saying - of that Harry had no doubt. But then, The Wizarding World had always been very sure of themselves - sure of his guilt, of his need to seek attention, of the fact that he had been pampered all his life. It seemed that everything that was taken as common knowledge, everything that was accepted as cold hard truth ... all of these things were lies, dressed up and paraded around until nobody even thought to question them.

They certainly hadn't thought to question him - about this childhood, or about this culpability in the death of Cedric Diggory.

Hands balling into fists, Harry had shoved himself away from the cot and began pacing from one end of his tiny cell to another, shoving his hands through his hair and holding it in place, back away from his forehead. He had been anxious, unsure of himself, unsure what he could do - if there was anything. It had taken his godfather over a decade to bust free of this place - and then he had only managed it because of his hidden talent as an animagus.

They had already decided on his guilt - Harry had known that. He had never been able to lie to himself - not for long, anyway. Even his childhood fantasies of having a family who loved him had been short lived - everybody else around him lied and played games, but he had never managed it quite as well as the Dursleys. Perhaps it was because so much of his life was made up out of lies that he was unable to do the same - the reason why he was always honest with himself, even with it hurt too much to contemplate.

Harry had no way of knowing that nearly a week had already passed before he had initially re-gained consciousness; a week during which Hermione Granger had stayed steadfast in her belief that her best friend was not a murderer, that he had not lied. A week during which Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonnogal, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and even the loyal Hagrid had turned their backs on The Boy Who Lived and refused to offer the smallest of help. In that first week that he had spent unconscious, even the smallest of voices might have done wonders toward seeing him released, toward seeing Harry Potter receiving even the smallest shred of decency from the Wizarding World.

But fear ran deep in this world of secrets and hidden shame, and it dwelt within the hearts of even the most steadfast of Gryffindors.

It resided in Ron Weasley - a fear of Lord Voldemort, a figure whose name he could not even utter. Fear that he would end up just like Cedric Diggory. Fear that everything he had gone through with Harry and Hermione would be for naught, for how could he - the least impressive of all his siblings - hope to stand against that sort of evil? Better to send Harry away . . . better to have a best friend alive and in prison, than dead at the hands of a man who frightened the entirety of his world.

Ron would have fought, if he thought he had a chance. He would have fought, it somebody had given him the chance. It was not cowardice that held him back, but ignorance. His family, his friends, the people he had looked up to his entire life . . . every single one had turned their backs on Harry. To fight for his release would be to take resources that would be put to better use against the newly resurrected Voldemort - Ron understood this. At his core he was a strategist, but it was only in recent times that he had come to understand that the strategies he used in chess could be applied to the real world, as well. This understanding had begun in first year, when he had sacrificed himself in order to ensure that Harry and Hermione could continue on, ever closer to the Philosopher's Stone.

And now, he was being forced to sacrifice his best friend, so that the war could continue. So that Harry might survive a war that no teenager could ever hope to fight by themselves. Harry was brave, and strong, and intelligent - but he was only one person. It wasn't cowardice that held Ron back, but bravery.

Or at least that was what he kept telling himself.

The fear existed in Albus Dumbledore, as well. His fear did not dwell with Lord Voldemort - known to him in the privacy of his own mind as Tom Riddle - but rather it dwelt with the young Harry Potter.

Harry should not have survived his duel with Riddle. Albus knew this; he himself would be hard pressed to survive in a battle one-on-one against Tom, particularly this new and improved version who had managed to return to life through very old, and very powerful magics. The kind of magic that had been banned for centuries - the kind whose very existence could shatter the Wizarding World. The very thought that such magic existed had been suppressed for so long, that to study them never even registered as a possibility in the minds of Wizarding Folk; one could not bring the dead back to life, just as one could not travel into the future, or even very far into the past. These were accepted truths, never questioned by the public or even the the researchers who dedicated their lives to finding new and improved ways of using magic to help in the everyday lives of their peers. Such 'researchers', after all, were only working with spells and incantations which had already been around since well before they had been born - they were simply finding new ways to combine them for the most mundane of actions. Cleaning, healing, even pranks and jokes - these were the limits of the field of 'research' in the Wizarding World.

Albus knew, however, just what could be done if one truly threw off the chains of political correctness, if one could truly move past their fear and see the depths into which one could reach for magical understanding. He had been tempted, once upon a time, by the ideas of the former Dark Lord Grindewald. But in the end, he had come to his senses, as the young Tom Riddle had not.

And, it seemed, the young Harry Potter did not understand just what he had done when he had survived this particular encounter with 'Voldemort'. His survival at the hands of Voldemort as a baby had only been accepted by the public at large because he was a -baby- . . . if his parents had survived instead of him, they would have been shunned and feared, questioned at every turn. Azkaban would have been two good for them. The sentence of Dementors would have been too good for ones such as they.

But Harry wasn't a baby any longer - and the public would be much less forgiving of one as old as he having such power - and being willing to use it.

Albus had hoped to protect Harry from the horror of his own power - he had hoped to protect him from his own ability to use that power. If Harry had shied away from it, if he had shown the proper respect for his magic, Albus might have been able to save him.

Then again, to do so would have meant that he never would have survived even one encounter with Tom Riddle.

It was Harry's own willingness to go farther than any sane person - to reach into the depths of his magic as far as he could ... this was what truly frightened him. It had frightened him in the young Tom Riddle, as well, and it was that comparison which led to his inability to help the young man. If he was willing to go down that path - if was willing to seek forbidden knowledge, to take advantage of magic in such forbidden ways ... there was nothing Albus could do, then.

Fear resided in Molly and Arthur Weasley in a way wholly different from that of their son, or even the aged Headmaster Dumbledore, however. Their fear was much more common, much more mundane - and much easier to understand.

Their fear lay in the direction of their children. Human beings are primarily selfish creatures, after all - we look after our own, above and beyond the health and wellbeing of strangers. They may have loved Harry, and they may have cared for Hermione a great deal. But neither of these two were their children, and their love for their own kin had quickly turned to fear at the thought of what could happen to Ron, or Ginny, or even Fred or George. What could Harry's revelations that awful night over a week ago, now, mean? What would it mean for their children, their home, all the people they loved?

So they went to Albus Dumbledore, leader of the light, asking the same question that so many were asking - the same question that Harry would later ask upon his awakening. What do we do? What can we do?

Do nothing, they were told. Disavow any knowledge of Lord Voldemort's return. Do not even hint that you might believe Mr. Potter, whether you do or not. Protect your family, hold them close, and await further instructions from The Order of the Phoenix.

And so the cycle of fear continued. Even Harry was not immune to it, upon his awakening. How could one not be frightened, faced with Azkaban Prison and the horrors that awaited there?

The longer Harry paced, the more the fear grew. It came with the screams and moans of the other prisoners, it came with the chill and the despair of the Dementors. They never passed too close, but even with the distance between them he could feel their presence.

The fear grew with the knowledge that he held no wand, no ability to cast even the simplest of spells. It grew with the realization that he would never again hold his wand - had it been snapped? Had somebody saved it? He was inclined to believe the former before the latter.

That night, he spent curled up in his cot, shivering in the cold and trying valiantly to conserve what little body heat he had. He had always been a thin child, and in his teenage years he had fared no better; he was still skinny, still underfed, still too thin to be considered healthy.

The thin, threadbare blanket was his only source of warmth, but even that did little good. So The Boy Who Lived spent the first of many nights curled up with his knees pressed almost to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in a futile attempt to keep warm.

Harry wasn't sure how long he stayed in that position, for there was no window in his tiny cell, and the screams of his neighbors never really abated; the voices changed slightly, but as one began to quiet, another would take it's place.

He came to measure time over the next several days by the arrival of the single, small meal that he was given. Was it noon? Night? Morning? He had no way of knowing. He did know that attempting to speak to the guard that carried it, or even attempting to approach the door to his cell, would not be tolerated. The first time he attempted it, a stinging hex lashed across his chest, more forceful than anything he had experienced in school yard fights with Malfoy or the other Slytherins. Certainly, it wasn't worse than the pain of the Cruciatus . . . but it was more unexpected.

He hadn't tried it again, after that.

Now, he waited until he heard the guard's steps retreating down the hall before he made his way to retrieve his meal, not even bothering to take notice of what he was eating. He was eating to keep his body alive now, not to enjoy anything he was forcing down his throat.

By this measurement of time, it had been nearly a month since he first began to take notice of the days - certainly there had been days before this that he had not bothered with. But he had been here for a month, of this he was certain.

The guards of Azkaban were a surly lot, watching him with dark gazes no matter how careful he was to remain as still and quiet as possible when they came with his single, solitary meal. They believed him to be a liar, a traitor - a felon who was willing to prey upon the most basic of fears in order to see a personal gain.

He should have known that their restraint wouldn't last.

The first time a guard entered his cell, he was asleep. He slept fitfully, nearly always in that place between sleeping and waking where everything took on a hazy quality - as though reality were far away, a dream that would pass away and leave naught but a passing feeling of unease.

This was real. He knew that - his mind had not snapped so early under the weight of the horrors of this place. But that sense of a dream, of the world being far away . . . the only times he truly shook it were when he first woke.

He much preferred the sense of surrealness.

But that day, when the guard slipped into his room, he had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, curled up on his tiny cot to preserve what little warmth he had managed to gather.

He hadn't learned the art of sleeping with his back to the wall quiet yet - hadn't learned that he had anything to fear from the men and women who guarded this prison.

He didn't like to think of that first day - the first time he had learned just how much hate these guards harbored for him, and his supposed lies.

The beatings came regularly, after that day. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for when they came to his cell. But they came every day. There was only one guard a day, and for that he was thankful. And they were always men who came - physically fit, their blows reigning down on him no matter how he begged them to stop. He learned early on that such pleas not only fell on deaf ears, but also angered the guards.

He didn't fight back after those first few visits. He was a fast learner - he always had been - and it did not take a genius to understand that making any attempt to defend himself only angered them more.

They never broke bones, or caused any permanent damage. But still, the pain had yet to subside by the time they came around the next day. Pain was his constant companion. Pain, and cold, and misery.

Two weeks after the beatings began, they became sexual in nature. It was always the same guard to made the advances, never any of the others. Did they know that he had taken things to this new level? Harry dared not ask, for he had learned long ago that any attempt at communication on his part would not be well received.

Three days after that he made his bid for freedom.

To say that he fought back, or attempted to escape would not be an accurate representation of the events that unfolded that day. Harry was, after all, an adolescent who had not managed to complete his magical schooling. His magic, like the magic of all wizarding children, was wild and in need of tempering - something he would have received at any number of Wizarding Schools.

Since he had first woken in Azkaban, Harry had found his emotions oddly flat - as though nothing mattered any more. He had been branded a criminal, and a traitor. His continued survival was naught but habit at this point. Death would take too much effort - it was, quite simply, easier to continue the habit of sleeping, eating, and just generally surviving.

But that day, as rough hands moved down to grip his hips, his magic finally reacted to the desperation of his thoughts. He knew what was coming - pain, humiliation, and degradation. His body used, against his will, for the sick pleasure of another.

When his magic finally burst forward to protect him, it did so in a dazzling display of power. The auror was thrown across the room to slam into the far wall, and Harry found himself facing an open jail cell - and the knowledge that none of the other guards were expected for quite some time.

These "sessions" normally lasted for at least an hour, if not longer. During that time, both dementors and aurors were nowhere to be found. This was largely do the fact that they happened in the middle of the night shift, though Harry had no way of knowing that at the time.

The stone hallway was cold against his bare feet, but Harry dared not slow down - not even when his feet began to ache, or sharp pains began to travel up his legs. Corridor after corridor he raced down, taking one sharp turn after another - utterly lost and with no hope of finding his way back to his cell.

Where was he running to? The question never crossed his mind. He was running on instinct and adrenaline now, and it wasn't long before his body began to protest, his energy and will to continue fleeing draining away.

He was still wearing his school robes, and as his hand reached up to press against his rapidly beating heart, his fingers brushed against the Gryffindor crest that still rested there.

Features twisting into an expression of rage, he gripped the crest tightly and flung it away from himself, hardly even noticing when the cloth of his robes ripped. His other hand reached over to steady himself on the cool stone of the wall for support.


	9. The Boy Who Was Trapped

The Boy Who Was Trapped

When Harry woke, it was to a pounding headache and a parched mouth. Sheets deliciously silky and cool against his bare skin. Yet that small comfort seemed somehow _wrong_ to the teenager, no matter how good it might have felt.

Harry was lying curled up in a fetal position, soft sheets beneath him and heavy blankets above him. He was naked - of that he was certain. His arms slowly uncurled from where they had been wrapped around his middle, swallowing the hiss of pain that even that small moment elicited in him.

It was no use giving voice to his pain - nobody was going to come to his aid. He had learned that lesson from a very young age, and his time in Azkaban had simply solidified that idea in his mind.

It had been months since Harry had last felt a kind touch, encountered a kind gesture. Months since he had been looked upon with anything other than hatred and revulsion. To find himself in such comfortable surroundings, then, was a shock to his already battered and bruised psyche.

To also find himself naked, however, brought a thrill of fear that he might not have otherwise known; not before the guards and their sadistic games. Modesty he knew - his aunt had certainly drilled that particular lesson into him enough times. Even Dudley had not been safe from that particular lesson. But this fear - this was new. Another reminder of just how much had changed. Of just how much had been taken from him.

Wrapping the sheet and blanket securely around his thin frame, Harry slipped from the bed warily - or at least he tried to. The minute he attempted to place his weight upon his own two feet, however, a sharp pain travelled up his legs and into his spin, sending him crashing down to the floor with a cry of pain. This wasn't like the earlier pain he had faced at the hands of the guards, and it came with a weakness that left his legs feeling as if they were filled with water.

If was only as Harry realised just how good the cool floor felt against his skin that he realized just how hot he really was. Though Harry had been a relatively healthy child, he had suffered from a childhood illness from time to time, just like any other child. Enough to know the overheated feeling of a fever when he felt it.

The next moments passed in a haze for Harry. He was vaguely aware of somebody helping him back up and into the bed. Though he fought against their hold, he was simply too weak - and too disoriented.

His first glimpse of his companion would not come for some time, as the pain and confusion overcame Harry and he found himself slipping once more into unconsciousness, aided by the magic of his silent companions - though he had no way of knowing this.

By the time Harry regained consciousness, it was to the feel of cool pressure being applied to his forehead. Though at first he struggled to open his eyes, his first glimpse of his companion made them shoot the rest of the way open, as his body reeled back in surprise.

To say that his companion was a person would not be entirely accurate. Runes of every size and description lay one on top of the other, blending together as they formed the likeness of a humanoid body, though it was devoid of any kind of decoration or unique quality. Though humanoid in design, it was clearly _not_ human.

At his sudden movement, the creature stepped back away from him. It's hands were spread now in a placating gesture, before coming to clasp together in front of it's stomach. With a small bow, the creature began to back away from his bed, Harry watching it warily until it had created some distance between them.

There was no mouth from which the creature might speak; creatures such as this had no true minds of their own. They had been infused with the will of their creature, each created for a specific purpose. Those left here had been created for one reason, and one reason only - to care for those within its halls. It's creator had never thought to differentiate himself from another, and so the creature before Harry now treated all who came before it, as it would it's own creatore. They were all one and the same to it.

Harry, of course, had no way of knowing any of these things. All he knew was what he saw - a creature whose skin was comprised of thousands upon thousands of tiny, floating runes. No skin to touch, only light and air and magic.

And after everything that had happened to him in the past couple of months, Harry could be forgiven for reacting the way he did.

Scrambling backward on the bed, Harry cried out in pain as his back arched, his teeth clenching. The Sending made no move to help him, however, instead slipping from the room. Harry was left panting for breath, staring at the door through which the Sending had disappeared, before darkness claimed him once again.

The next several times Harry woke, the Sending was nowhere to be seen, but he couldn't find the energy to pull himself from the bed. The smallest of movements sent sharp pain down his spine, deep gouges on his arms threatening to reopen.

He remembered how he had gotten those wounds, now - as he had run haphazardly through the halls of Azkaban, spells had followed him through the halls. Had they been sent by the guard who had been accosting him at the time, or another who had noticed his attempt at escape?

Even now, his mind shied from the memory of that guard, and what had been done to him. If he thought too long on the man, he could swear he felt those hands on him even now.

But every time he awoke, it lasted only a handful of moments before darkness consumed him once again. It wouldn't be for nearly two days, until Harry could summon the energy - and the force of will to endure the pain - to move from the bed that he had no memory of being placed in.

His memory of the past two days was hazy at best; a haziness lay over his memories of the past two days, as though a great distance lay between him and them. Even now, that haziness had not truly gone away. Nothing seemed real, nor permanent.

Though he had been naked the first time he had woken, he was now fully dressed in a pair of black sleep pants and a black shirt, a series of runes emblazoned around the left cuff of the shirt. As he maneuvered himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed, Harry now peered at those runes with a raised eyebrow, the fingers of his right hand tracing their shape.

It was eerily silent all around him, adding to Harry's sense of etherealness. There was a sense that nothing was permanent in these first moments; as though he were in a waking dream.

But if Harry Potter had learned one thing in his young life, it was that there was power in dreams.

Struggling up into a sitting position, the sharp pain that raced down his spine and through his arms was enough to convince Harry that yes, this was real. No dream had ever been quite _this_ painful.

At least not physically.

The creatures - the Sendings - who had been present before were nowhere to be found, and though Harry shivered as his feet touched down on the cool stone floor, he did so without fear of them. They had helped him, had nursed him back to health, had fed him and clothed him. In his estimation, that made them, at the very least, friendly. Not to be feared.

Beyond the room in which he had awoken, he found chambers branched out, one into another, and filled with all manner of things. Books, certainly - it was like somebody had taken a library, added some bedrooms, and then started filling it with other things, as well.

But he tired easily, and soon found himself dropping down onto a sofa, resplendent with thickly woven blankets and thick pillows.

When he awoke, there was no change to the room around him, save that a Sending was setting down a plate full of food.

Struggling up into a sitting position, Harry reached out a hand to grasp at the creature's sleeve. Instead of finding the cloth of a garment, however, his fingers passed through, his vision swimming with thousands of symbols dancing before his eyes.

As his fingers finally passed all the way through, Harry fell back with a gasp, while the Sending came to stand before him, it's ... hands? Folded within what Harry was still forced to consider it's sleeves, for want of a better word.

Gasping slightly, Harry scrambled back away from the creature on the couch, watching warily as it stepped back. Now that it was standing so close, Harry could see only darkness within the cowls of it's hood, and it suddenly reminded him far too strongly of a Dementor.

The creature continued standing there, however, and after several tense moments Harry returned to his previous position, though still tense and ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

"What are you?" His voice was rough, from long disuse and too much screaming, surprising him. The creature made no indication that it noticed, however, instead moving to one of the book shelves which filled the room, and pointing a single book.

Harry struggled to his feet, approaching and selecting the book.

It never occurred to him to wonder how - and why - the book was seemingly written in English. It never occurred to him that where he was - where he had been taken - was so far removed from English shores, that a book written in his native tongue should have been impossible.


	10. On the Nature of Dementors

_Author's Note: Huzzah! Two chapters in one week! I'm on a role! I hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and I should have the next one up soon, as well. I'm working without a beta at the moment, so that makes things go a bit slower than I was hoping._

On The Nature of Dementors

Dementors were, by far and away, the most feared creatures within the Wizarding World. More than Vampires, more than Werewolves, it was the Dementors who truly struck fear into the hearts of all men, no matter how stout their hearts.

None knew the origins of Dementors, but in true Wizarding Fashion, they never truly thought to ask. Dementors simply _were_ , like the air they breathed and the summoning or healing charms they had known all their lives - there was no beginning to such things, and certainly no end.

Dementors, however, remembered a time before they had become the silent guardians and executioners of Wizarding kind. A time when Free Magic had not been allowed to run rampant. A time before they, themselves, had been contaminated by it's pervasive touch.

Charter Magic was capable of many things - both wondrous and dangerous. To understand the rune structures of Charter Magic, however, was a something one might spend their entire lives in study of. Perhaps the most complex of such studies was the creation of _Sendings_ \- beings created out of magic itself. Their bodies were not flesh and blood, but rather Charter Runes layered one atop another. To touch a Sending, then, was to touch Magic itself - to be swept up in it's neverending tides. One could easily lose themselves in the swirling abyss that was the Charter. For so long as one was kept in physical contact with such runes, they could reach into Magic itself.

Such an idea, of course, would have been considered blasphemous to the Free Magic wielding Witches and Wizards of Earth. To even consider such an idea as touching upon Magic, itself in such a way would earn a one way trip to Azkaban, at the very least.

If Sendings were capable of emotions such as humor, they may have found this to be particularly funny - for the very creatures used to silence such ideas, were themselves capable of granting a Witch or Wizard access to such wonders.

Charter Magic and Free Magic were never meant to co-exist side by side. The only time this had been accomplished had been within the instruments of the Abhorsen - those necromantic tools used to lay the dead to rest, through the use of both the Charter and Free Magic. These instruments were wholly unique, however, and carefully planned down to the most minute of details.

The Dementors ... Dementors had not been planned. The fusion of Charter and Free Magic within them had come about spontaneously, and the end result had been both horrifying and amazing.

Where Charter and Free Magic met, the laws of physics and magic had become twisted; there was little left that was recognizable in Dementors as the Sendings they had once been. Their creators - those Charter Mages who had walked the bridge between worlds, and left Azkaban Island as a silent testament to their passing - would surely never recognize what their servants had become.

But the Dementors remembered.

That was the funny thing about magic, though - particularly Charter Magic. It was bound by rules, however strange those rules might have seemed. In the creation of the Sendings who would one day become known as the Dementors of Azkaban, a single order had been laid down ... obey the commands of the masters of Azkaban. And now, over a thousand years later, those commands came from one place - The Ministry of Magic.

But the Dementors knew no loyalty to any but their current master. Should that master change, as control of Azkaban slipped from one hand to another, then they would simply follow the commands of their new masters.

But like calls to like, and in the blood of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, the Dementors sensed the blood of the original builders of Azkaban - and their original Masters. And in the magic that had formed them long ago, that was enough of a connection for the Dementors to now follow _their_ commands.

Magic was a tricky thing. But sometimes, just _sometimes_ , it opened a door when all hope had fled.


	11. A World Apart

A World Apart

There are places where the fabric of one world gives away to the design of another; places where one might step seamlessly from one world and into another. Azkaban Prison was one such locale.

Down it's twisting hallways and seemingly endless staircases one could travel, and witness it's ancient age; carvings in a language none upon Earth could now translate.

Eventually, however, one would come upon stairways which one again led up, dark and dingy cells giving way to hallways which branched off to spacious rooms, beautiful paintings and piles of ancient books and scrolls which had somehow withstood the ravages of time. And everywhere, that ancient language of runes which none who traversed the halls of Azkaban Prison could have any hope to decipher.

Still upward one could wander, past spacious living quarters and kitchens all held in pristine condition, as though their inhabitants had simply stepped out for a moment and would soon return. Up, ever upwards until your legs ached and you found yourself short of breath. Now, by this point one might wonder - _did it take me this long to descend?_ For surely there were limits to the size of Azkaban Prison, even with the aid of magic.

The blending of Free Magic and Charter Magic had created the impossible in this place; twisting the laws of time and space. What might otherwise have remained an impossibility, then, became commonplace.

One might wander for hours, and never come upon the set of rooms in which Hermione Granger and Harry Potter now stared at one another, the silence stretching between them until Harry stepped forward, his fingers etching out a small rune in the air. Before the question could form on Hermione's lips, however, that rune was already at work, dismantling the magic which held her prisoner.

Still Harry said nothing, his arm falling to his side. His green eyes soaked up the sight of his young friend - now a good decade younger than him, but still as beautiful as he remembered her.

Time had softened his memories of Hermione; when once he might have shied away from thinking of her as a female, as beautiful, he no longer did. His memories of his loved ones held nothing but beauty in them now, so far removed from the Wizarding World and it's bigotry. The horrors of Azkaban Prison, and his time within it's cells as a prisoner, had made all previous transgressions by his friends and family pale in comparison. Even his treatment at the hands of the Dursleys no longer seemed quite so horrible as it once had . . . not when he held it up against his time as a prisoner, subjected to the tender mercies of the Azkaban guards.

The Sendings - those translucent creatures made of magic, light and runes - had provided garments for Hermione - Harry could easily made out the runes along the cuffs, though he didn't let his eyes linger long enough to decipher their exact meaning. All of that could wait - for now he just wanted to _look_. To find all those things that the passage of time had erased from his memory.

He knew, intellectually, that he should be questioning not only Hermione's presence here, but also her age. While he had aged a good decade, Hermione remained the same - he should have been worried, perhaps even frightened, by this discrepancy.

Yet Harry couldn't bring himself to care about any of that. The sight of his best female friend, just as he remembered her ... it took his breath away.

Harry had never thought he would see his best friend again. It had been over half a decade since he had been left to rot in Azkaban, and though he harbored no ill will toward his friends and family for their silence, he had long ago given up any hope of rescue.

Hermione's presense, of course, rose more questions than answers. As happy as he might have been to see her, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that her presence here would being naught but disaster.

In the years since Harry had first woken in this strange place, he had searched long and hard for a means to return to the world he had left - the world that had condemned him. But all he had found was more questions.

Oh, he had left these halls - their twisting passageways had seemed confusing at first, but over time he had come to work out a pattern to their construction. But what he had found beyond these walls had not been what he had expected.

"Hermione..." Harry stopped, uncertain what he had been about to say. Uncertain what he _could_ say, in a situation like this.

But the longer he stared at his friend, the more memories were beginning to creep up on him. Not memories of Hogwarts, or the times he had shared with his friends - no, those memories he had gone over in his mind thousands of times, keeping his friends close in his memories, as he could not in life.

No, it was other memories that were pushing to the forefront now. Memories of that dark cell, of the fear and anguish he had felt at being left alone. Memories of what had been done to him in that cell, of everything that had been taken from him. Memories of being helpless, alone, and scared - of being at the mercy of men stronger, faster, and larger than he.

Harry stepped back, his fingers curling his hands into fists as he regarded the young woman before him with a far more critical eye now. "Hermione, how are you here?"

Hermione gave an almost shrill laugh at that, an edge of hysteria to her words. "I was about to ask you the same question!"

Harry pressed his hands flat against each other, pressing the side where his index fingers met against his lips as he turned away from his childhood friend. Breathing in deeply, Harry closed his eyes for a moment as he struggled to compose himself.

"None of this makes any sense, and I think I deserve some answers." Hermione's voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of panic to it. A sense that Hermione Granger was one wrong word away from full blown panic.

Had he ever seen Hermione panic before? Harry didn't think so. It took quite a lot to cause such a reaction from his best friend - that Harry remembered quite clearly.

But he supposed he could understand her reaction, as much as it still shocked him. She had woken in a strange place, in strange clothes, to find her best friend years older than her. And as much as Hermione had been able to come to accept the presence of magic, she was still very much a creature of logic.

And nothing about this - about ANY of this - was logical.

Harry could understand Hermione's shock, and if she was anything like him, a healthy amount of fear. He remembered clearly when he had first woken here; the fear, the confusion. Only there had been nobody here to greet him, nobody here to help him understand what was happening.

But he could do that for Hermione. He could help her understand - help her accept.

Drawing another deep, calming breath, Harry turned toward his childhood friend. Forcing a smile on his face, Harry held out his hands. "'Mione, please."

Hermione approached him warily, her trepidation clear upon her features. Harry's smile turned genuine at that,

For her part, Hermione's gaze held … not wonder, or even joy at seeing friend, but rather fear. Fear at the changes staring her in the fact, fear at the unknown. Her logic, her knowledge of magic, could not explain this. In fact, both were telling her than it was summarily impossible.

Before she had learned of magic, Hermione had never had much of an imagination. Though she loved to read, her particular choice of books had always been those which held some new information for her. Biographies had been a personal favorite, though historical books had also caught her attention. The point was, she had never been very imaginative; unlike other children her age, she had never indulged in "what-if" fantasies, and those novels which explored such scenarios - alternate histories, choose your own adventure, historical romances and the like - had never caught her fancy.

Because of this lack of an imaginative spirit, Hermione had never considered the idea that time itself might be subjective; that it might behave differently, that one might manipulate it to suit their whims. Time travel as it existed with Time Turners was logical, with a defined set of rules which she could understand. That was the only explanation that made any sense to her now - that her friend had somehow gotten his hands on a Time Turner. But there were simply too many variables left unaccounted for; too many questions left unanswered.

Harry suddenly smiled, taking a step toward Hermione, who remained rooted to the spot. Her brain was screaming at her to run, that something was _wrong_ , that this entire situation was far too dangerous. But she simply couldn't seem to make her feet work.

One hand reaching out, Harry tentatively took Hermione's left hand in his right one, seeming almost startled when his fingers met actual flesh, as if he had expected to find that she was an illusion. That startled reaction snapped Hermione out of the daze she had found herself in, and she jerked her hand out of his, taking a step back into the room that had served as her prison these past several hours. "What's going on?" She demanded, her features twisted into a scowl.

Harry simply laughed, shaking his head. He didn't seem upset that she had pulled away from him, but rather amused at her demand for information.

"You don't really think I have any clue what I'm doing, do you 'Mione?" Harry's voice was rough, and he rubbed a hand across his throat now with a wince. Put quite simply, he didn't have many reasons to speak these days - there wasn't much point, when he knew that nobody was around to answer him. The Sendings which saw to his every need could't hold a conversation; they had no true physical forms, nor the ability to communicate. Though they understand rudimentary commands, they quickly became confused by anything more complicated than a direct request. They kept him fed and clothed, but were of little help beyond that.

"Hermione, how did you get here?" Harry hadn't intended his question to come out so sharp, so accusatory, but Hermione bristled at the tone of his voice. As she stiffened at the question, Harry frowned, all traces of mirth gone from his countenance.

"I don't — something grabbed me." Hermione hated herself for that stutter, that hesitation. It wasn't like her. But none of this was making any sense, and she was FRIGHTENED.

Harry rubbed a hand across his chin, sighing. He hadn't shaved this morning, and the small growth of beard he had accumulated over the night scraped roughly against his hand. He enjoyed the sensation, though - he always had. Well, ever since he had first experienced it a couple of years ago. It served to ground him now, as he took a calming breath.

"Come on, let's get you sorted." Harry sighed in defeat, holding out his arm and gesturing for Hermione to proceed him, raising an eyebrow as she refused to budge.

"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers." Hermione insisted, a stubborn set to her jaw and her eyes flashing in defiance. Harry knew that look, though it had been years since he had last witnessed it. Hermione had placed a small stool between herself and Harry, and seemed ready to use it to defend herself, if need be.

"I'm not sure how many I can give you," Harry admitted softly. "It's not that I don't want to!" He hastened to add as Hermione's scowl only intensified, though he couldn't help the small grin that lit up his features. "But I don't understand this any more than you do, 'Mione."

"Stop - stop calling me that." Hermione demanded, fighting against the urge to step back, put more room between herself and this man who reminded her so much of Harry - but couldn't possibly be her friend.

"I .. just. Stop." Hermione stammered, taking a step back away from the man before her; a man who couldn't possibly be Harry. Every last shred of her logic insisted on it.

Harry sighed, a look of pain settling on his features. He had never been particularly good at hiding his emotions, and that hadn't changed since he had found himself in this place - if anything, it had gotten worse. There was nobody here to hide his emotions from, and those few he had had contact with had admitted that they found the honesty of his expressions to be preferable to the alternative.

"Hermione Granger, the smartest witch of her age." There was a fondness to Harry's tone now, though also a sadness. "I know that this is confusing, but I am not the one to explain it to you. Please, let me take you to somebody who can."

Hermione paused, considering. "Can I at least have some normal clothes, first?"

Harry glanced at the long gown that Hermione was dressed in, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "I suppose that _could_ be a bit hard to walk in. I'm just going to step over here and find you something else to wear, okay?" As he said the second part, Harry held his hands up, in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

After a moment, Hermione jerked her head in a nod, watching as he moved to the side of the room and began digging through one of the chests pushed back against the wall. There were several of them, each as beautiful as the next. From this particular chest was pulled various articles of clothing, which were then placed upon the bed.

"I'll leave you to it. When you're ready, I'll just just outside." That said, Hermione was left to her own devices, though she noticed that the opening to the room was not closed off to give her any privacy.

Still, she had to hope that if she couldn't see him, he couldn't see _her_.

Several minutes later, Harry glanced up at the sound of movement from the room he had left Hermione in, blinking at the sight she made.

The clothing had been a surprisingly good fit for her, though the pants were perhaps a bit too long.

The clothing Harry had provided was a long, tunic that extended halfway to Hermiones knees, with the same symbol he had found elsewhere within these rooms - a symbol he had come later to recognize as an ancient symbol of the Clayr - a symbol that had long since been abandoned for the one they new used - a symbol they had used for over one thousand years.

The trousers, though fitting snugly around Hermione's slim waist, became much less form fitting as they fell in soft waves down her legs, barely brushing against the floor as she walked. Her feet were dressed in soft slippers whose design matched her tunic, whose long sleeves feel almost to her fingertips.

"A bit too big, but it will do for now." Harry teased gently, though Hermione made no response other than to eye him warily. "Come on, there's somebody I want to introduce you to - and they should be able to give you better answers than I could."


	12. First Encounters

First Encounters

Truth be told, there was much Harry could have told Hermione - it was just a matter of finding the best way to do so. And if he knew himself at all, he knew that he would mess it up somehow. Tact had never been his strong suit, and that hadn't changed over the years he had spent among the Clayr - the only thing that _had_ changed was his ability to stay silent, rather than to blurt out his feelings as soon as he felt them.

No, Myriel would be better suited to give the answers that Hermione sought - and those she couldn't provide, she would know of one who could.

At least Hermione's first meeting with Myriel would go a bit smoother than his own had.

His first journey beyond these rooms had not been successful. He had walked for perhaps ten minutes, before he had returned to his original room, exhausted from his trek.

It had been months since he had walked any great distance, locked in his prison cell in Azkaban. After all that time of disuse, his body could no longer handle long periods of exercise. As he collapsed back on the bed he had originally woken, Harry barely even noticed the Sending which drew a blanket over him, food and drink placed next to the bed on a small table.

When he awoke, he found the food still warm, though in his lees-addled mind he didn't take notice of the rune that floated just above the food, disappearing once he touched the food.

It was as he was eating the food - he had become accustomed to the Sendings by now - that Harry considered his next course of action. If he was going to make it beyond these rooms - and he had been here several days already, and he had seen no sign of another person - then he would have to walk for more than 10 minutes at a time.

Harry had been uncomfortable before - living with the Dursleys had ensured that he was no stranger to pain, and his stay in Azkaban had only hammered home that lesson. No, he was no afraid of pain, or even hunger.

But Azkaban had taught him one thing about himself - and that was what he feared the most. Not pain, not injury, not even death. He was most afraid of being alone.

He supposed it made sense; now that he had the time and presence of time to think about it, he realized that even as a small child he had sought out the company of others, even when he knew that it would bring him nothing but pain.

It was that fear that drew him to feet a day later. He had spent the past 24 hours exploring the rooms around him, digging through the chests to find clothing and the most comfortable shoes he could find. A small pack of what he assumed was leather, he filled with food provided by the sendings. Every time he had asked them where he could find another actual _person_ , they always simply pointed in the direction he had originally set out for.

It never crossed his mind to request that the sending simply bring one of these people _to him_.

Later, when he was safe and warm and with those he could trust, Harry would look back on that moment and wonder. Why had he never even considered that there might be others that the Sendings could bring to him? And he would realize, with a sinking feeling, that he had never considered that help might come for him - that it never had before in his life, so why should this time be any different?

The clothing he found was certainly not what Harry was accustomed to; loose fitting pants that swished as he walked, a long tunic that fell nearly to his knees. The same symbol adorned the front of the tunic, was stitched into the right leg of his pants. And those comfortable shoes he had been hoping to find? Slippers. Had Harry looked, he would have found runes covering the soles of the slippers - symbols to help with comfort and durability. But he hadn't looked, and thus had little hope for the journey he knew he was about to undertake.

Harry felt rather silly, acting like he was about to go hiking when all he could see was a hallway. A dingy, narrow, dusty hallway, of course - but a hallway all the same. Not so different from some of the corridors of Hogwarts, particularly in the lower levels, beneath even the Slytherin Common Room.

But no help was coming. He truly believed that. How long had it been already? A week? Perhaps longer? Those first few days were still a haze in his memory; filled with pain and fear. At any moment he had expected to be thrown back into his cell, or to awaken to discover that it had all been a hallucination, or a dream. Yet he had been in too much pain to even move very far;

These rooms were primitive, though not as much so as the cells of Azkaban Prison had been. A chamber bot stood in the corner of the rooms he had taken as his own, and he had barely the abilityy to stumbled even to that, in those first few days.

Now, as Harry readied himself for his journey, he eyes caught on that chamber pot, and a new questions suddenly had him pausing. He had seen the Sendings taking the chamber pot before, of course, in order to empty it. The reek of it would have been overwhelming by now, if they hadn't. But where did they take it? Where was it emptied? Somewhere outside, certainly. Somewhere far beyond these rooms.

It was a simple matter to make his inquiry to one of the Sendings who had done everything in their power, up to that point, to facilitate his every demand. Moments later, Harry found himself facing another corridor, though in a much better state of repair than the one he had been presented previously.

The corridor ended abruptly after only a few minutes of walking, a blast of cold air hitting his face as he was presented with a view that was, quite honestly, both breathtakingly beautiful and starkly frightening.

Harry knew what the area around Azkaban Prison looked like; he had viewed it from the single window of his cell often enough. Azkaban Prison had been built on an island - a dreary, dark island where the wind and rain rarely let up enough for the sun to peak through, and even then it was a stunted light - a dark shadow of what he remembered from his earlier childhood.

But what he witnessed that day was far from dark and dreary. Sunlight nearly blinded him, after so long in the dark. When his vision finally cleared enough to understand what he was seeing, Harry still had a difficult time grasping that what he was seeing was true.

A winding valley spread out before him, a wide river winding through it. All around him, snow capped mountains took up his sight, a chill wind blowing bits of snow into his face.

This wasn't right. Not even remotely. Nowhere even close to Azkaban Prison did such a place exist. And on the horizon, he could see a city; bridges and tall buildings made tiny by the distance. But it was clear that it was a city.

It wasn't until Harry stepped out onto the ledge, and into the chill air fully, that he realized that another city lay all around him. More a part of the mountain than a seperate entity, he could make out a large bridge and wide open doors, admitting horse drawn carts and individuals.

 _Horse drawn carts_? Harry frowned as he squinted at the sight, trying to grasp what it was he was seeing.

Of course, in the wizarding world they were a bit behind the times, and the very right might still make use of of carriages. Hogwarts certainly used them, though the horses were magical in nature.

But not carriages like this. He was close enough to make out that the carriages themselves were laden down with packages, though he was still too far away to make out just what those packages might be. But these were beasts of burden, not school children being brought to a magical castle for their equally magical education.

No, none of this made any sense. It was like he had been brought back in time, or to some far flung corner of the planet where technology had not quite caught up with the lives of the people who lived there.

It was a sudden gust of strong air that brought Harry's attention back to his immediate surroundings, and away from the view that stretched out before him.

A woman sat upon a strange winged beast, that seemed both frail and yet powerful enough to carry it's rider with no sign of complaint. It's rider was female - long blonde hair pulled back into a tight braid behind her head, skin dark not from a tan, but from it's natural coloring.

The woman was regarding him in silence, her light blue eyes never wavering from his face. Like everything else he had seen since first awakening in this place, everything about her screamed _old fashioned_ \- from the strange armor that she wore, to the sword he could see strapped across her back.

And this was no ornamental sword; it was the real deal, even he could tell that with his untrained eye. No jewels of inscriptions were visible, only a rough leather sheath and a handle that had seen use, though carefully cared for.

A string of unfamiliar words came from the woman, and Harry stepped back in alarm. It was unlike any language he had ever heard, either in person or on the telly, and it only added to his confusion and fear.

Another sharp string of strange sounds came from the woman. "I - I don't understand what you're saying!" Harry finally managed to gasp out, his back pressed against the wall next to the opening he had stepped out of.

The woman frowned now, the first sign of emotion or personality he had seen in her, before he raised one hand to draw in the air, blue fire lingering where her hand had passed as she whistled out a short tune.

Harry frowned, his confusion and curiosity dampening his fear somewhat.

He always had been too curious for his own good.

"What are you-" He didn't quite manage to finish his sentence, however, as he suddenly slumped forward, unconscious.

When Harry regained consciousness, he jerked to wakefulness and into an upright position, staring wildly around himself.

He was no longer on the ledge, exposed to the elements. Instead, he lay in an austere stone room; the bed on which he lay was hard, the blanket above him thin. The only other decoration in the room was a single wooden chair, on which a woman sat.

Not that same woman as before, no - but they looked similar enough that they might have been sisters, or perhaps cousins. Her blonde hair had been allowed to flow freely down her back, however, framing her fact and making her seem somehow ... gentler.

Harry swallowed past the sudden lump of fear in his throat, staring at her with wide eyes. She returned his stare silently for a moment, before suddenly smiling.

Raising her right hand, she used her index finger to draw in the air before her, that same blue fire that the earlier woman had employed flowing in the air as she gave a soft whistle. As she did so, the air between them seemed to shimmer, faint enough that Harry had to wonder if he had imagined it.

"Good morning."

Harry started at the sudden noise, as much for how it broke the silence as the fact that had spoken in perfect English.

"I - Good morning." Harry flushed slightly at his stutter, hands fisting in the blankets beneath him as he faltered for words.

A small laugh escape the other woman. "You need not worry for your safety within these walls; we are no brutish that we would harm one as young as you, nor one who has shown no violence toward us."

Harry simply stared at her, and the woman continued in the same comfortable vein.

"Though, I do wonder - how did you find that crevasse? None I have spoken to even knew it existed, and it seems to lead deep in our home."

"I ... I don't know." Harry admitted, the woman's easy going manner putting him at ease, though he remained cautious as he watched her. "I just ... I woke up inside, a couple of days ago." Harry shrugged his shoulders, before wincing at the pain that the movement caused.

Eyes sharpening, the woman stood to her feet. "Are you in pain?"

"I'll be alright. Just ... give me a minute." Harry assured her. The last thing he wanted was for some stranger to begin examining him, no matter how nice she seemed.

"Harry, you are not 'alright'." The woman admonished, and Harry frowned.

It took him longer than it should, to notice just what was wrong with that statement. But when he placed the source of his discomfort, Harry stiffened.

"How did you know my name?"

The woman merely smiled, moved to stand beside the bed, and Harry scurried back so that his back was pressed against the wall, his eyes wide.

Harry had always been brave - the foolish kind of brave, that rushed headlong into danger with barely a thought for his own safety. But Azkaban had instilled in him a cautiousness that Gryffindor had done it's best to stamp out of him.

He was frightened. Anybody would be, in this situation. But his fear was like his bravery; it wasn't the thinking kind of fear. He had been reduced to instant reactions in Azkaban. Careful planning, thoughtful discourse - these were things that had been in short supply to begin with, and they had been fully stamped out during his time in that awful place. Now, he simply reacted. He never even thought about how it might look, or whether it was 'brave' or 'cowardly'. It simply _was_.

"I'm going to hurt you, child." The woman admonished gently, and part of Harry bristled at that tone. She wasn't that old - certainly not old enough to be referring to him as a 'child'.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say so, but the woman kept talking before he could utter a sound.

"We _Saw_ you - out on that ledge. And when we did, your name came to us."

"What do you mean, you saw me?" Harry asked, confused. "Did you have security cameras or something?" Maybe these people weren't as primitive as he had thought, then.

The woman frowned. "Security ... Cameras?" She was obviously confused, but moved on regardless. "I'm not sure what those are, but I can explain ... if you will allow me to check you for injuries."

Harry hesitated, eyeing her carefully. She had no weapons that he could see, but that didn't really matter. He had seen her cast magic, and in a way he had never even imagine was possible. Runes of blue fire drawn in the air, a soft whistle of music ... no words, no incantations, no wand to lose or be stripped of ...

Stripped of. Like his wand had been stripped from him, along with every dignity, every human right.

Harry drew a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly as he fought against the lump forming in his throat, the tears rising to his eyes ... the panic welling in his chest.

"Harry? Harry, listen to me." Her voice seemed somehow far away, but Harry forced his eyes open. The face before him was blurred - even more than it had been before, without his glasses to see with.

"Harry, it will be okay. If you don't want me to touch you, I won't. I just want to make certain you aren't too badly hurt, alright? Just a quick spell, and I can make sure you are alright."

Harry simply nodded, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as turn his head away, closing his eyes once again.

If she was going to kill him, torture him ... she was going to do it. He could stop _them_ before, and her certainly couldn't stop her.

He couldn't protect himself, or anybody else.

With his eyes closed, Harry didn't see the rune that was drawn in the air, nor the frown that marred the woman's face as words of blue fire appeared in the air before her.

"Harry, I don't know where you were before. I don't know who hurt you. But we won't hurt you here. I need you to understand that."

Harry said nothing, simply kept his arms wrapped around his legs, his body as still as possible.

A sigh escaped from the woman before she stop it. What she had read in those few moments alarmed her - and made their young guest's fear and anxiety so much more understandable.

Returning to her chair, she watched the young man before her for a moment before speaking. "You asked how I knew your name, and it's only fair that I tell you. You let me examine you, after all. And I always keep my word." There was a sharpness to her tone when she said it, and Harry risked a glance up at the strange woman. "Always." She repeated, raising one light blonde eyebrow, and Harry settled for giving a jerky nod of his head.

"I am a member of the Clayr. I ... do not think you understand what this means." At Harry's shake of the head, she smiled slightly before continuing.

"M name is Myriel. The Clayr are a people gifted with The SIght. We can see glimpses of possible futures - not The Future, understand. Simply a future that _might_ be. I can see your confusion - and your disbelief." Myriel smiled. "I understand it. Those who do not posess this gift often look upon it with disdain. We cannot tell you what will be- we can only see what might be, should one take the right steps. We see many different paths, truly; we may only direct one to the correct path. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, though in truth he didn't truly understand. Not really.

Harry had hidden his face in hisknees at some point, and Myriel sighed. "You are welcome here, Harry. We have _Seen_ ... we know you are in need of our aid. And we are more than willing to offer it."

Harry's head jerked up. "What have you seen?"

"Nothing specfic." Myriel's voice was calm, though inside there was a panic welling up inside of her. This boy child - something had hurt him. Something had traumatized him. She didn't know what, but she knew it was there. "The _Sight_ doesn't always reveal as much as might like - but we know that you have been hurt, that you need our help. Our protection. And we have pledged it. I told you before - I stand by my word. _We_ stand by _our_ word."

Myriel finally rose to her feet once again. "Rest, Harry. You are _safe_ here. You always will be."


End file.
